


Burning Bright

by kaasknot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A/B/O, Angst, D/s, Knotting, M/M, Scent Kink, caught-in-the-act, dubcon, heat - Freeform, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-08
Updated: 2011-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:01:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaasknot/pseuds/kaasknot
Summary: John knows to keep all the alphas they encounter away from Dean. He doesn't think to keep Sam away.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 44





	Burning Bright

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before "omega" was codified as a part of the trope, hence why it's only alpha/beta. Originally posted on LJ.

Dean Winchester had always known he'd be an alpha when he grew up, just like his dad. He'd never considered otherwise. There was no otherwise.

So when his sixteenth birthday rolled around and brought with it the searing fires of Heat instead of a knot, the desperate desire to be filled rather than to fill, _disappointed_ wasn't really the right word for what he felt. Confused, definitely. Indignant and horrified, those too. But in the deepest recesses of his heart, Dean was ashamed. He wasn't the strong, alpha son his father needed; he was soft, weak. Submissive. Programmed to roll over for the nearest knothead who caught a whiff of his pheromones and wanted a taste.

He remembers those two weeks with sharp-edged clarity. He remembers being inexplicably hot, even though it was the middle of January and the heater in their crappy apartment was notoriously fickle. He remembers waking up and staggering into the outdated kitchen wearing only his boxers, a strange, liquid sensation squishing between his legs that he tried like hell to ignore. He remembers turning away from the blissful cold of the refrigerator, milk carton in hand, to see John, rigid in his chair, the newspaper crumpled in his fingers. He remembers watching his father's nostrils flare as he scented his bitch son's pheromones.

"Dean," he'd said, gentle in a way he rarely was, "get dressed and come sit down. We need to talk."

He hadn't known what was wrong, at first. He had been so sure he was an alpha that the possibility of being a beta had never even crossed his mind. It wasn't until his father told him, softly so as not to wake Sammy, that he understood he was in Heat.

It felt like a blow to his gut. 

There were certain precautions to take, of course. Drugs had been developed a while back that suppressed Heat so betas could function in society, but those were costly and hard to come by. Dean would have to make do without. Instead, he stayed home from school until it passed, so restless he was practically climbing the walls. He tried jerking off in hopes of relieving the pressure, but it left him unsatisfied and his cock chafed raw. He didn't try anything else. 

Meanwhile, John upped self-defense drills in PT. He also got a prescription for contraceptives. Just in case.

After it was over, John smiled a tight smile, clapped a cautious hand to Dean's shoulder, and told him and Sammy to pack up. They left town the next day.

As it turned out, the first few years after a beta's first Heat it takes a while for the hormones to settle down. Dean went into Heat again two months later, and twice in the month after that. All he remembers of May and June was heat, both the sweltering Georgia weather and the licking fires roiling low in his belly. Neither his father nor Sammy talk about those months. When he asked them later what happened, John just cleared his throat and looked away, and Sammy turned red as a beet. It was only after Dean noticed his father's bruised knuckles that he connected the dots.

* * *

Dean tried not to let it affect him. He was still his father's son, and he was going to be the best damn hunter he could be—but there was a reason that hunters were mostly alphas.

It was October. He hadn't had a Heat in months, and he was sure he was fine—right up until the monster killing women in their beds turned out to be a incubus, and Dean's hormones reacted with the most furious Heat he could possibly imagine. It lured him in close in his dreams, taunting him with miles of tanned skin over hard muscle and the scent of male musk, and if wasn't for the howl of pleasure he'd made when it speared him open, chances are he would have been its next victim. It scared the shit out of Sammy and woke John from a dead sleep in the other room.

Sam had the presence of mind to reach for the gallon of holy water that was always under the bed and splashed Dean and the hulking, misshapen creature over him; the steam that rose from the incubus fogged the room. Dean screamed again, in fear and pain, and John stumbled in with the exorcism already on his lips.

Dean didn't speak the next day, didn't even leave his bed, simply lay curled around himself and stared at the wall.

That night, John and Sam had their first fight.

* * *

Months passed. Dean's Heat cycle settled down, and as long as he didn't hunt four weeks out of the year, or leave the house, or interact with humanity at all during those times, he was fine. He was Dean fucking Winchester: Hunter Extraordinaire and Lady Killer. He blasted his father's cock rock in his father's muscle car and all the girls in all the high schools he attended swooned as he walked by in his father's leather jacket. He was the picture of an alpha male—until his Heat came.

Then he spent his days denying what his body wanted as he was forced to face what he was.

* * *

Three years after Dean's first Heat, Sammy popped a knot. It seemed like the universe's version of a sick joke: the floppy-haired, emo little brother turned out to be an alpha, while his older brother, desperate for a knot, wasn't. Dean wished he could cast it aside, never mind the cosmic injustice of it all, but the universe was apparently sadistic as well as endowed with a dubious sense of humor—Dean started noticing Sam in ways he really, really shouldn't have. 

It was like once Sammy's body realized he was an alpha, it decided it had some catching up to do. He shot up like a weed, cresting and surpassing Dean's height in a short, agonizing year of growing pains and shit tons of groceries. His natural argumentativeness grew as well, swollen by the upsurge of testosterone in his blood. The slightest thing set him off, and usually it was John. Dean gave up trying to mediate them, choosing instead to lock himself in his room and pretend to read automotive magazines.

PT became dangerous territory. Sam was just... he was getting so _big_ , and there were actual muscles sprouting on his lean frame, eating up the baby fat that had been there before. Dean found himself dreaming of Sam at night, dreaming of him holding him down and marking him, claiming him as his and then filling him up, and Dean would find himself jerking awake mid-orgasm as though he was thirteen all over again, Sammy's name on his lips.

Worse, it wasn't just Sam's growing body. It was hearing Sam's infectious laughter, seeing his mega-watt smile—both so rare, nowadays—that sent a warm flush through Dean's chest. It was sitting on the couch, watching the boob tube while cleaning guns, Sammy doing his homework at his side. He didn't know if he jacked off more to those images than to the ones of watching water drip down Sam's chest when he stepped out of the shower.

Dean's next Heat was the worst since the incubus. It was as though his body knew there was a prime alpha nearby, and did everything its power to pull him in. He actually caught Sam scenting him, a curious, dark look in his eyes, before Dean kicked him out of their room. That night was the first time he fingered himself, running his fingers through the slick his body naturally produced and quivering from the strange, intense sensations. 

He found his prostate by accident near the end of the second week, prodding it with one of his fingers as he stretched himself open, and he came so hard from the sudden whip-crack of pleasure that he nearly choked. He decided right there that if being a beta meant having orgasms like that, then maybe it wasn't all bad.

He resolutely ignored the whisper in the back of his mind that said orgasms with Sammy would be the best of all.

* * *

When Sam left for Stanford, Dean buried his face in the dirty shirt he'd stolen from Sam's duffle and jerked off to his scent. He was so drunk he forgot to feel ashamed.

The next morning he cleaned the dried come off his belly and threw the shirt away.

* * *

The next four years were a whirlwind of hunting, hustling and women. Dean had discovered ages ago that plenty of women preferred fucking betas—no knots meant a quicker finish and less clean-up. He used that knowledge to its utmost.

He had also discovered that being a beta, a pretty beta at that, meant not just women were attracted to him. Dean broke the fingers of the first man who touched him, and almost put the first alpha who hit on him in the hospital.

He didn't talk about it to John, but he knew John knew, because when they met up John made sure he'd renewed his prescription for contraceptives. Dean burned with humiliation every time.

* * *

Dean didn't talk about Cassie, either.

* * *

Dean had never meant for this to happen. He should have stayed away from Sam, kept away from his brother's normal life and normal girlfriend. He could've found Dad on his own, even Sam had said as much.

 _"Yeah, well. I don't want to."_

He didn't want to admit to the fever dreams of his Heat, the only time he let his guard down. Didn't want to admit how they pulled him toward Sam. Refused to believe that the reason, the _real_ reason, he came back to Stanford was because he missed his little brother in all the ways that a big brother shouldn't.

Breaking into Sam's apartment and sparring with him again, hearing those familiar grunts and feeling his brother's firm musculature shift beneath his hands, he was almost giddy with it. Then the light switched on, and he saw Jessica, and—

_"Wait, your brother Dean?"_

—Yeah. There was that.

She didn't seem surprised that Sam's older brother was a beta. It was obvious, of course; Dean was shorter, slighter, more delicate. _Prettier_. She didn't make any snide comments or joking remarks on it, either. She took his bullshit about the Smurfs in good spirits, and if it weren't for the fact that she was fucking Sam, Dean would have been half in love with her already. She'd do.

That weekend was the best weekend Dean could remember in a long, long time; even Sam's bitching was music to his ears. He actually set the volume on the radio lower than normal so he could hear Sam better, not that he'd ever tell him that. And Sam... he'd finally filled out that alpha frame.

Dean did his best not to think of that. Mostly he failed.

But now. He'd ruined Sam's life just by being there. Sam's dreams, his girlfriend, his future—crushed by burning beams and a cruel family legacy. Dean was sorry, from the bottoms of his feet to the tips of his spiked-up hair he was sorry. He never wanted Sam to experience this. But he couldn't help the way his heart lifted when Sam said they had work to do, and the twinge of guilt stung his conscience like salt in a wound.

* * *

They hunted. They were brothers. Dean tried to let that be enough.

* * *

He didn't know how this happened. Well, no, he knew how. It happened because of the genetic fuck-up that turned him into a he-bitch gagging after his brother's cock, that's how it happened. He got _that_ part. He just didn't know how he got _here_.

 _Here_ was writhing on your brother's knot, moaning like a cheap whore when your father stepped through the motel room door.

 _Here_ was being so far gone that you couldn't help coming as he did, shooting thick streams of creamy white past the scant protection of your fingers. If anything the adrenaline rush of being caught made you come harder.

 _Here_ was having your brother's cock _stuck in your ass_ when your dad started yelling. 

_Here_ was—

* * *

Maybe he got a little careless. A little complacent. Maybe he kissed Sam when he found out he hadn't been shot by those freaky, inbred, _human_ trophy hunters, after all. Maybe he could have passed it off as relief if he'd ended it quickly, but maybe Sam hadn't pulled away at first, and maybe Dean used a little tongue. 

You see, at first, hunting was a breeze. Simple gigs, simple kills. But then shit got complicated. First there was the deal with the shapeshifter, and _damn_ it if it didn't chap Dean's ass knowing that fucker was walking around with Dean's face, trying to kill Sammy. Then there was the clusterfuck in Lawrence, and then the asylum. That last really cut, maybe even more than seeing his mother's ghost, because until then there had been this tiny, perverted shred of Dean's worthless, perverted soul that hoped maybe, just maybe, Sam wanted him back.

A round of rock salt to the chest does wonders for getting a man back in touch with reality.

Anyway. It was almost a relief when he short-circuited his heart fighting off that rawhead, because at least when he's dead he won't have to fight off his attraction to Sam anymore.

Of course, Sam had to go fuck up the plan and save him. Turned out it wasn't really salvation, and though that made the guilt dig deeper, sink its claws so far that sometimes Dean couldn't hold his head up under the burden of collected shame, neither could he squelch the joy (yes, joy, dammit) that his brother loved him.

That was where he let his guard down. That, combined with seeing Sammy barrel into that hellish living room warm and breathing and _alive_ , was how he stopped thinking and just acted. As soon as Sam cut through the rope tying him down Dean lunged out of his chair, reaching with both hands and a whimper to catch Sam's head and drag his mouth to his own. 

It was desperate and bloody, and when Sam didn't pull away Dean licked across the seam of his brother's lips.

Sam pulled away after that, sure enough. Pulled away with a gasp and a shocked look, overbalanced and landed flat on his ass on that filthy floor. Dean stumbled back, his own eyes wide as horror spilled through his veins.

Oh God, he'd just kissed his brother.

He stared down at Sam and Sam stared back up at him, and the moment seemed to stretch into infinity until it was shattered by the retort of a rifle. They turned in unison, and Dean pulled Sam to his feet. Everything paled in the face of potential death, even potential incest.

Turns out it was Kathleen putting the head nasty down. Dean couldn't say he was upset. Walking back to Hibbing with all the unspoken words filling up the air between him and Sam, though, that was something he could have lived without.

* * *

Naturally, Dean's Heat hit three days later. The rushing tingle through his limbs was the first sign, and then smells—gun oil, burger grease, dirty socks—grew sharper. Dean breathed deep into his lungs and Sammy’s scent cut through the rest, deep and masculine and screaming _alpha_. The sudden flush of slick from Dean’s ass was just insult to injury, really. 

He kicked Sam out of the room. Sam didn’t protest even though it was ten-thirty at night, didn’t even throw Dean an annoyed glance, and that freaked Dean out more than the fact that he’d pressed himself against the door once he’d slammed it shut. He could hear Sam shifting on the other side, smell him, smell the faint arousal Dean’s pheromones had incited. He bit his lip and pressed his forehead against the wood, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

Sam slept in the car that night. He picked the lock since Dean didn’t trust himself not to jump him if he opened the door to give him the keys, and the next morning he got himself another room. Dean let him collect his duffle later, when Dean was in the shower. The water washed all smells down the drain; it was the only time Dean felt close to normal when he was in Heat.

So it went. Dean kept to himself and Sam let him, occasionally trading texts to make sure all was well. Dean mostly ordered in, not that he was hungry very often; his mind was focused on other things, and he really didn’t need the pimple-faced pizza boy drooling after him. He tried to ignore the kiss, but the memory of Sam’s skin, the warmth beneath his fingers and lips, the way he hadn’t punched Dean’s lights out… He couldn’t think of anything else when his Heat spiked. And that stupid little shred of hope blossoming deep in his soul, well that just grew stronger.

It should have ended like that, it should have stayed in Dean’s sick mind, but they had been in the middle of a case and dammit if Sammy wasn’t a freaking Doberman when he got his teeth into something. He had to go investigate those killings, had to go confront that crazy bitch they’d met, what was her name, Meg? Had to go tangle with some devas.

He stumbled back to the motel and started banging on Dean’s door, and Dean, already strung tight, maybe snapped when he saw Sam’s bloody face. He couldn’t really help himself; his own blood surged, and the worry he might have felt sublimated to pure lust. He wanted to lick Sammy clean, lick him all over, taste him and hear him fall apart.

“Christ, Sammy,” he ground out, reaching out a finger to brush the trickles of blood seeping from the claw mark on Sam’s cheek.

“Dean…” Sam whispered. He didn’t finish, but Dean saw his pupils dilate, and watched his nostrils flare, and rationality took a swan dive out the window. Sam was an alpha; Sam wanted Dean. The math was simple.

They crashed together in a frenzy of biting and moaning, tearing at each other’s clothes and heedless of the buttons that went flying. Sam seized Dean’s ass and ground his dick against Dean’s hip, worming his thigh between Dean’s to rut up against him. Dean whimpered, burying his face in Sam’s neck and breathing deep. Sam’s arousal oozed through his pores, saturated the air around him, and Dean gasped it in. His tongue flicked out, tasting Sam’s skin, and Sam growled, actually growled, at the feather-light brush. He broke them apart just long enough to tear Dean’s undershirt off and then his own before shoving Dean back onto the bed. He was on Dean before he even had time to bounce up, and Dean cried out, short and strangled, at the sensation of Sam’s chest pressed against his own, heat-flushed skin. 

Sam silenced him with a brutal kiss. Nipped at Dean’s lips and Dean opened for him, submitting beneath his alpha’s demand, and it felt so _good_ he almost wanted to cry. He tangled his tongue with Sam’s instead, tasting his brother, and his hands threaded their way around Sam’s back to pull them closer. He arched up and ground his sensitized nipples into the firm, sweat-slick skin of Sam’s chest.

"God, Dean," Sam said suddenly, pulling away from the kiss. "Do you even know how long I've wanted this? Wanted you under me?"

Dean shook his head. He wasn't hearing this; Sam didn't want him the way Dean did, it was just the Heat talking. He threaded his fingers in Sam's hair and tried to pull his mouth back down, but Sam was having none of it. He grabbed Dean's wrists (god, his hands were huge) and pressed them into the mattress.

"No," Sam snarled. "You're gonna listen."

"Fuck, Sam," Dean panted. "Shoulda known you'd want to talk about your feelings even in the middle of a goddamn Heat fever."

Sam's fingers tightened around Dean's wrists, and Dean winced as the bones shifted. "Always putting up a front, aren't you, Dean?" he hissed. "Don't want anyone to know you're a beta. But you know what?" Sam leaned down to rest his nose against Dean's neck before taking a long, lingering sniff. "Everyone already does, Dean. God, I can smell your Heat, it smells incredible." He shifted his grip and trailed his nose down Dean's chest, nudging against one puckered little nipple and chuckling at Dean's gasp. He teased it for a few moments, running the tip of his nose back and forth over the turgid, tender flesh and savoring Dean's breathy gasps. Then he moved to the side and buried his face in Dean's armpit.

Dean jerked back in shock. "What the hell, Sam!" he yelled, flushing with embarrassment. It had been ages since he’d showered, God only knew what he smelled like. 

Sam groaned. "You smell like…" he started, then huffed out a breath that tickled the hairs of Dean's pit. Dean shivered. "You smell like everything I've ever wanted wrapped up with a bow and handed to me on a silver platter. I'm gonna work you over, Dean. I'm gonna split you open on my cock and fill you with my come."

Dean let out a long, throaty moan at the thought. "What are you waiting for, Sammy?" he husked. 

That was all the encouragement Sam needed. He tore open Dean's jeans in two quick jerks, yanking them and his boxers down his hips and off his legs in one smooth pull. He flipped Dean over on the bed and held him down with a hand against his lower back. Dean hissed as his naked cock was pressed into the scratchy motel comforter. The air seemed overheated, and it pressed against his skin with the weight of anticipation.

Sam, meanwhile, had pulled off his own jeans. He sat back and stared down at his older brother, splayed out and wanting before him. He ran a fingertip down the line of Dean's back. "I've wanted this for so long," he murmured, voice rough with arousal. "Ever since your first Heat after I popped my knot, Dean. I spent most of those two weeks hiding in the bathroom, jerking off. I could still smell you, you know? I guess I've always been screwed in the head, just now..." He bent down and kissed Dean under his shoulder blade.

"Christ, Sammy," Dean whispered, glancing back over his shoulder. He wanted to say that it wasn't Sam's fault, that it was Dean for being a beta and going into Heat and putting out all those pheromones, but he didn't have enough functioning brain cells to get that across. Instead he arched up into Sam’s hand where it seared the small of his back. "Please..."

Sammy clenched his fingers into Dean’s skin. "Yeah, Dean, I've got you." He kissed down Dean's spine, starting at the knob at the base of his neck and traveling down, planting burning little kisses until he reached the swell of Dean's ass. Delicately he parted the cheeks, revealing the pink, leaking hole within. Dean felt him lean close, felt his body heat, and heard him sniff. Dean didn't mind as much at this point. He felt another pulse of slick leak out of him, matched by a bubble of pre-come from his cock, and he shuddered.

“Jesus fucking Christ on a rubber crutch, Sam, if you don’t fuck me _yesterday_ I am going to superglue all your zippers shut,” Dean said. He was angling for pissed-off and belligerent; he had a feeling what came out was more like breathy and desperate.

He felt Sam smile against the curve of his ass cheek, and all the hair on the backs of his legs rose up in goose bumps. “You want me to fuck you, huh, Dean?” he rumbled. “You want me to stuff you with this fat alpha cock, to knot you and fill you with my come?”

“Goddammit _yes_!” Dean shouted, and he’ll deny that his voice cracked until he’s dead and his bones burned.

Sam replied by rearing over Dean’s body and guiding his cockhead against Dean’s pulsing asshole. He didn’t press in, instead teasing Dean with gentle rocks of his hips, and Dean swore again, voice high and taut with thwarted arousal. “C’mon, Sammy, please,” he begged. “I want it, I want you, so bad, just… _please_.”

“Please what, Dean?”

“Please… fuck me.”

Sam rammed his cock forward, and Dean yelped, clenching down against the intrusion. "Christ, you're tight," Sam hissed. "Are you... have you never...?"

Dean shook his head, lower lip clenched between his teeth.

It hurt. There were no two ways about it. Dean felt like he was literally being split open around his little brother's cock, and it was almost enough to throw him out of his cloud of lust—were it not for the sizzle of pure pleasure that ran beneath the pain. He'd never done this before (outside of that incubus, and there was no way he was counting that), never let himself get fucked, and now that he was here, doing it, he really wished he'd paid more attention to the mechanics of it. He was pretty sure the only reason it was working now was because his Heat evolved with the understanding that all parties involved wouldn't have the patience for proper preparation.

"Jesus," Sam muttered, and Dean swore that the cock wedged in his ass grew even bigger. He whimpered, tried to pull away. This was supposed to feel good, was he defective or something? "Haven't you even experimented?" Sam panted. Dean could feel him trembling behind him.

"A... a little," he forced out. "Finger or two." He winced as Sam's hips jerked forward, pushing his cock deeper into Dean's ass.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam said, voice rough. "Just, the thought of you, fingering yourself till you came..." Dean grunted as he pushed in another inch.

Inch by slippery inch Sam forced himself farther until, through the haze of pain-filled pleasure, Dean realized he could feel the brush of crinkly hair against his ass, and the humid press of Sam's skin all along his back. Sam sat there, buried balls-deep in Dean, and waited.

Dean gasped for breath as though he'd just finished running the 100-yard dash. He could feel every inch of Sam's cock filling him, could feel him pulsing inside him. It still burned, but... he needed... more. "Sam," he rasped. "You've, I need you to... to move."

Sam swore shakily and pulled back. Dean could feel the rim of his hole stretch as Sam dragged his cock past it, clinging to him, and Dean started trembling, overwhelmed with sensation. The burn changed as his Heat grabbed hold of it and turned it into the sweetest thing he had ever felt. His flagging cock throbbed, and rallied and began to fill.

Then Sam started talking. "That's right, Dean," he whispered, wrapping a hand around Dean's chest. "Take it, take my knot. God, you're so tight, baby, I'm the first, aren't I? I'm the first one in this virgin ass. Christ, do you know what you do to me?" Dean trembled and panted, caught between the cock filling his ass and the filth filling his ears. His world narrowed to Sam, Sam thrusting into him, Sam whispering to him.

Then Sam changed his angle and Dean's vision exploded into white sparks. "Holy fuck, _there_!" He yelped, bucking in Sam's arms. He remembered finding that spot with his fingers, but _ohchrist_ it never felt like this. Sammy's hips stuttered for a moment, and then his thrusts started nailing that sweet spot every time.

Dean lost control of his body. He thrust back onto Sam just as frantically as his brother drove into him, until Sam let out a long low moan. His thrusts grew shallower and shallower, nearly stopping, and Dean whimpered, pushing his ass back against Sam. He needed more, dammit, Sam couldn't stop now!

He barely noticed it when the base of Sam's cock began to swell. He was lost in not enough sensation, angry for more, when all of a sudden he registered Sam's knot pushing out against the walls of his ass. His blood thundered in his ears, and he felt himself give a throaty groan as it pressed against his prostate, sending delicious thrills of pleasure through his belly. His muscles spasmed around the growing knot, and Sam gave one stuttering breath, his hips gave one shuddering jerk, and then Dean felt him explode deep in his ass. He could feel the hot ropes of seed splatter against his inner walls, searing and soothing in equal measure, filling Dean and plugged up by Sam's knot. Breeding him. 

Dean's mouth fell open on a gasp of concussed wonder, feeling his brother spend his load, and felt his own balls draw tight to his body. His cock throbbed and swelled even further, and he could feel the orgasm building in his guts. It was huge, it was inevitable, it was burning through him and he opened his eyes—

—to see his father walk through the door.

"Dad!" he heard Sammy squeak behind him, jerking back involuntarily in surprise. He hauled Dean back with him, wrenching his knot against Dean's prostate, and Dean cried out as he felt his orgasm hit him. 

It hit like a motherfucking freight train. It slammed into him with all the force of ten years of denial. Dean shoved his hand to his crotch, to try and cover himself, to try and stop the inevitable, but it was too-little too-late—his whole body convulsed, arching backwards into Sam in ecstasy. His cock spurted between his helpless fingers, painting his chest and the sheets with semen.

He sagged in Sammy's arms, unaware and uncomprehending for one blissful moment, before their situation crashed back into him.

* * *

He didn't hear most of their father's tirade, just bits and pieces. He sat in Sammy's lap, full to bursting with his knot and covered with the motel bedspread. He didn't look at John, tried not to touch Sam as much as was possible. Tried to ignore how Sam's thighs occasionally still twitched, how he could feel the wet pulse inside him as Sam deposited another load of come in his ass. He burned, this time with shame, and not even Sam's hands brushing along his trembling sides could calm him.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ on June 8, 2011. I haven't watched this show in _years_ but the hysterics on tumblr kicked me in the nostalgia. So here you go, I'm re-posting my first-ever a/b/o fic a wholeass 10 years after I wrote it. Enjoy?


End file.
